PS 3541 
.N72 Y6 



1911 






o . i 



5 ** ^ „' 



a 

3 
C 

* 



* Vvw v * spiff/???? ° 












^°^. 







L> ** 









. a*'*, '.'mm: <§?■"*.. 










o * « 







e » ° 







tf* > ... % 



IN* ^ 

0*s 









« > 



o « * 



'<!><: 






« 



"o^ • 







■>' 



<^ *T 






•C^ * • * • A 1 



P .*: 




THE YOUNGER QUIRE 



Of this first edition 100 copies have been printed 

and the type distributed by the enemies of the 

author. Of these, copies 1 through 10 have 

been autographed. 



This volume is Number. 



SI 



Set up and printed by Edward Carroll, Jr. Co., Printers 
64 Church Street, New York 



THE YOUNGER QUIRE 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION 

BY DAFFYDOWNDILLY 



o u. 




THE^MOODS PUBLISHING COMPANY 

NEW YORK 

1911 




Copyright by The Moods Publishing Company 



60 516 3 

FEB 17 1941 



Index 

PAGE 

Introduction, Foreword and Preface . . 1 

JAMES OPPENHEIM 

Wednesday Afternoon 4 

MURIEL RICE 

Inscrutable 6 

GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK 

In the Garden of Faustina 7 

SHAEMAS O'SHEEL 

Dierdre of the Mysteries 9 

OTTO S. MAYER 

Passages from "Fillerup" 11 

B. RUSSELL HERTS 

Lines from "The Gnome and the Nixie" 13 

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 

City Silhouettes 16 

LOUIS UNTERMEYER 

Last Love 18 

ADDENDA 

Ave Atque Vale" 20 

(A Swinburnian Leave-taking) 



i i 




"The Younger Quire" 

Introduction, Foreword and Preface. 

HEN the well-known poets 
Wordsworth and Coleridge 
published their "Lyrical Bal- 
lads", little did they think 
that they were blessing the 
unsighted centuries with two 
immortal poems. But "Tin- 
tern Abbey" and "The Rime 
of the Ancient Mariner" 
have outlived volumes a 
myriad times more pretentious. 

When "The Germ" of the Pre-Raphaelites 
flourished, became a fever and finally died, one 
deathless contribution outlived all the limp lilies 
and lank ladies when "The Blessed Damozel" 
leaned out. Another poetic touchstone from a 
seemingly insignificant acorn. 

When (and now appears the reason for the 
above sonorous and rhetorical flourish) "The 
Younger Choir" first appeared modest and virgin 
in its chaste white vellum and ever-so-handsome 
gilt letters, no more bonfires were lit, no more 
water-fronts illuminated, no more special bul- 
letins printed than at the inception of the afore- 



[1] 



mentioned works. But that it was full of the 
rare viands and splendid mead of song not one 
of its contributors ever doubted. And, though 
few of them had asked for the gaudy wreath 
of Fame, there was not one singing brother* 
whose head did not seem particularly well 
shaped to wear the laurels. Inglorious Miltons 
they were, but not mute. 

The purport of this little book (and its wholly 
serious editor recognizes the folly of a work 
which has none) is to further proclaim, herald, 
advertise, entice the reader toward and generally 
call attention to the larger and more lasting 
volume. This "Younger Quire" of twenty-foui 
pages cannot by nature of its size and cheap- 
ness blazon the beauties of all the boy sopranos, 
altos and occasional baritones of the "Younger 
Choir," but contents itself with singling out 
those poets whose force, power, charm and, most 
of all, whose individuality is their most arrest- 
ing feature. 

Here, then, for the catholic and unorthodox 
taste is splendid and various fare. For the in- 
tellectual gourmand there are the huge and satis- 
fying mouthfuls of James Oppenheim, the red 
and gamy portions of George Sylvester Viereck, 

*or sister. 

[2] 



the exotic and elusive flavor of Irish stew as 
prepared by Shaemas O'Sheel, the mysterious 
entree of Miss Rice, the hashed metaphors 
and fine verbs of B. Russell Herts, the (dead) 
sea fruit of Otto S. Mayer, the domestic Turkish 
delight of Charles Hanson Towne and'the can- 
died sweetmeats and lyric treacle of Louis Un- 
termeyer. 

If, therefore, the careful and scrupulous 
reader discovers and does not hesitate to hail 
even as few as half a dozen imperishable and 
sempiternal poems, the editor feels that the tre- 
mendous labors of the typesetter and proof- 
reader will not have been in vain. 

DAFFYDOWNDILLY. 



L3 



Wednesday Afternoon 

(After James Oppenheim, Author of "Satur- 
day Night/' "Monday Morning/' Etc.) 



T 



HE sun spills down on the 
throng-filled streets great 
golden-showering glories, 
Touched with this magic, the 
buildings loom — enchanted 
promontories. 
Debutantes, manicures, Bar- 
nard-girls, ladies' maids 
jostle each other along 
Broadway — 
Stumbling, unheeding, impetuous, eager, they 
answer the call of the matinee. 



A thousand theatres lure them on ; and voices 

soprano and alto 
Blend in a chattering chorus that sings the Rune 

of the haunting Rialto. 
With a stream from the subway and swirls from 

the cars, in an hour is this marvellous thing 

made, 
While Shakespeare is played by a vaudeville 

team, and Ibsen succumbs to "The Spring 

Maid." 



[4] 



You girl with the five-pound-Huyler's look, I 

see — and a great light dazzles my eyes. 
In you and your thousands of hurrying sisters 

I feel my City of Cities arise. 
Here's Juliet rushing to Romeo — yonder, with 

Rosalinds, Marguerites walk 
And the world and its beauties come rushing 

back, unfurled in this corner of New York. 

Oh, young, sweet, pulsing American girls, the 
theatre will hold you and thrill you — 

But what of the vaster vision, the scarce-re- 
vealed dream that shall fill you 

With home-things, broom things, everyday dra- 
mas, rich, vital and splendidly human — 

I see you glorious, hallowed, lifted — a God- 
yeasted spirit — Woman. 

A Woman — aye, and more — a Mother, with 
little wild children about your knees — 

Homers, Dantes, Lincolns, Whitmans — you shall 
live to people a world with these. 

Oh, girls — no longer girls — but creatures sky- 
smitten, ten million-starred — 

You are each a warm and throbbing note in the 
eternal symphony of God ! 



[5] 




Inscrutable 

(After Muriel Rice.) 



OULD that I knew why God 
has placed me here — 
My soul is dauntless and I do 
not fear 
The raving ocean, the dis- 
heveled sky, 
The scornful lightnings, 
winds that terrify, 
Xor all the alien stars that 
point and leer. 



Ah, who can say what drives the scurrying year, 
Why are the leaves of life so worn and sere, 
Why are the springs of Beauty always dry — 
Would that I knew. 

Lo, I am God's melodic mutineer; 

My standard on the heights of Song I rear; 
The awful secrets that are held on higtfi, 
The mystic Wherefore, the enshrouded Why 

And what these verses mean, that seem so clear 
Would that I knew. 



[6] 




In the Garden of Faustina 

(After George Sylvester Viereck.) 

H lips of lust, oh lips un- 
blessed, 
I seize thee in a shameful 
kiss 
And drink, altho' I touch the 
Pest, 
Thy sick desire, thy loath- 
some bliss. 

Thou hunger of my soul's disease, 

Fever that stabs me through and through, 

Not all the panting, passionate seas 
Could wash away the lure of you. 

For thou wert great when Nineveh 

With laughter mad went down to death 

And all men died to worship thee — 
Thou wert the smile of Ashtoreth. 

All ages knew thy spell — and yearned . . . 

For thee young kings grew amorous ; 
You kindled Hadrian, you burned 

The golden boy Antinous. 



[7] 



You have known all things — blood-red skies, 
Huge, obscene idols on the brinks 

Where vampires meet the harlot's eyes — 
Foul night birds screaming — and a Sphinx! 

Oh lips of lust, here shall I feast ; 

No evil satisfies or stills me. 
I hail myself Sin's splendid priest — 

I will be wicked, tho' it kills me. 



18] 




Deidre of the Mysteries 

(After Shaemas O'Sheel.) 



H little gray feet in the waters 
Oh little gray heavens un- 
furled ; 
Tis of you that the waters 
and heavens are singing, 
Oh, little gray Rose of the 
World. 



Behold, I shall make you a 
song, Oh, my loved one, 
A song all of Gaelic, a song all of fires, 
And white things shall be in it, white words and 
white silence — 
Vague names, ancient griefs and uncertain 
desires. 

Of faeries and runes shall my singing be fash- 
ioned — 
Of the clashing of swords, of the shadowy 
seas — 
We shall call ourselves Eilidh and Oona and 
Oisinn 
And Colum and Shaemas and such names as 
these. 



[9] 



Once more shall the palpitant Pig span the 
Heavens, 
Once more shall the musical Spells, which are 
Nine, 
Be lifted and fed by the Passion of Beauty 
And conquer the nations — oh, loved one of 
mine. 

Oh, little gray feet in the waters, 

Oh, little gray heavens unfurled; 
Unravel my message — go seek her and tell her, 

My little gray Rose of the World. 



[10] 



Passages from "Fillerup" 

(After Otto S. Mayer.) 



HE scene is night, in a grotto, 
several thousand feet under 
the Pacific Ocean. The 
setting suggests murmurs, 
branch witchery, strangled 
starlight and such like things. 
Two water sprites (Frivol 
and Restless) are discovered 
swimming about bearing 




wreaths of sea-anemones in either hand. They 
have evidently been singing for several hours. 

Frivol: 

Salt kisses, emeralds, singing spray, 
A cave where moonbeams wanly play — 
Green stars by night, and a rose by day, 

In a swirling, purling sea, 
Where days are all a blaze of blue 
And sunbeams barely filter through, 
Where Dusk is like a velvet dress 
That hides the heaven's shabbiness, 
Where (look up Yeats) the linnet sings 
And morning's full of — various things. 



[11] 



Restless: 

Verily, verily, that is true — 
One and one are always two 
And (if still you crave for more) 
Two and two are always four. 
So we add each rhyme to rhyme, 
Beating thus trochaiac time, 
Lilting lightly and ere long 
We have sung a splendid Song. 

Frivol {resuming) : 

Sea-weeds, sea-rhythms, pearls and brine, 
Vast coral forests, purple wine 
And mermaid music shall be mine 

In a churning, burning sea. 
Where waves, aghast with many moons, 
Repeat the season's latest tunes 
And Ocean, hearing each refrain, 
Bellows it, thundering, back again — 
While ancient Night o'er lakes and lawns 
Peers skyward, hour on hour — and yawns. 
Restless starts to reply as 

The Curtain Falls. 



[12] 



Lines from "The Gnome and 
the Nixie" 

An Undramatic Dialog. 
(After B. Russell Herts.) 

"Mr. Herts has contributed, perhaps, the most 
remarkable line in the wlhole volume. It goes, 
if I can spell it correctly: 

"Bof— Boof— Boo I" 
— Richard Le Gallienne, in a review of 

"The Younger Choir/' 
The Gnome: 

Biff — bang — bing ! 

These are not poems worth a word. 

Why, I have heard 

The choiring planets swing 

Carolling — 

And sing. 

Moving the youngest stammering bird 

To nobler flights than these. 

Such singing would I have until the trees 

Shot forth their vernal harmonies 

In greater richness. Till the brooks 

Answered with clearer laughter 

And thenafter 

The daws and rooks 

Find sweeter tremblings in their throats — 

[131 



Their melting notes 

Should rise like dawn and startled light 

Out of the deepest night; 

Like stars that shed short silver shreds of 

sound 
Within the heart of some young poet's lines — 
Not bound 

By crabbed rules or close confines, 
My Song divines 
The ever-changing but eternal 
Rhythms of Life. 
Life, be it splendid or infernal, 
Life, be it sparkling or irrational — 
I see it all — the humor and the strife 
(Vide my columns in "The International"). 

The Nixie: 

Silly billy — heigho — 
What is this talk about, 
Why do you walk about, 
Waving your hands? 
Why do you sputter so, 
Gurgle and mutter so — 
Cannot you utter, so 
One understands? 

The Gnome: 

Sis — boom — bah ! 
What should you know 
Of po- 

[14] 



Et's craft? 

You, who have laughed, 

Will sow 

The seed 

In bitter Need. 

(A symbol) Lo, 

And, likewise, Ah ! 

This thing you mock is not 

The metric rot 

A lot 

Of other bards rehearse. 

No! 

Myself am never fettered. See 

Unhampered, how exultingly 

The soul of me, 

Vibrant and terse, 

Comes forth with glee 

In free 

Verse ! 



[15] 



City Silhouettes 

(After Charles Manhattan Towne.) 
New York from an Aeroplane. 



ENEATH the stars the city 
sprawls — and dreams, 
Misshapen, vague, it min- 
gles with the night; 
It stretches forth its bridges, 
and it seems 
A shimmering spider spin- 
ning webs of light. 




In front of Vantines. 

These windows lift me from the streets 

And I am wafted far away 
Where spicy airs, exotic sweets, 

Prolong the day. 

Here is the golden, singing sand, 
Here once again I dare rejoice 

With temple-bells, Damascus and 
A lover's voice. 



[16] 



The sampan (local color note) 
Is heard beyond the city gates 
Where, smiling in a flowered boat, 
The maiden waits. 

Thus, standing by this city wall, 
My spirit spreads a poet's feast 

And I am fed — and drunk with all 
The fabled East. 



117] 




Last Love 

(After Louis Uxtermeyer.) 

E went singing without tether 
Thro' the briar and the 

heather, 
My love and I together, 

In the young June days ; 
And we faced the world to 

win it, 
For our heart and soul were 

in it, 
And the songs of lark and 
linnet 
All were lyrics in our praise. 

We had pierced Life to the kernel — 
Oh, the hearts of us were vernal, 
And we pledged a faith eternal, 

In the young June days ; 
So our happy oaths were plighted, 
And with love and lips united 
Many poems we indited — 

Scribbled many a pretty phrase. 



[18] 



Oh, the whole world seemed to love us, 
And we knew that high above us 
All the gods were jealous of us, 

In the young June clays, 
And our songs were full of pity 
For the lovers in the city, 
Wno had never heard a ditty, 

Wild and witty as our ways. 

But oh, the senseless caring, 

For we've done with summer-faring, 

With the dreaming and the daring 

Of the young June days. 
And the mirth and memories go where 
Visions vanish to a slow air, 
And a wind comes out of nowhere, 

Like a voice that heals and slays. 



191 



"Ave Atque Vale" 

(Read at a dinner given to B. Russell Herts 

BY THE CONTRIBUTORS OF "MOODS" 

January 15TH, 1910.) 

O this is the end — our Last 

Supper — 
A feast from the tables of 

Time — 
And, oh, for the pen of a 

Tupper 
To make it immortal in 
rhyme. 
But a darkness — a dream of disaster 

Has robbed every jest of its smile — 
We are gathered in grief, for the 'Master 
Must leave us a wihile. 

We are gathered in grief that is deeper 
Than Night and the hush it bestows, 

Than the dreariest depths of the Dnieper, 
Than a page of De Casseres' prose. 

We are gathered in grief that is greater 
Than Ocean desiring a star, 

Than all of the mournfullest Maeter- 
linck tragedies are. 




[20] 



There is physical food here, and mental, 
But, lacking the salt and the spice, 

We are weary of lily and lentil, 
Of raptures and roses and Rice. 

And this spiritless air that intrudes is 
The reason our feast is a fast, 

For the Master must go — and so "Moods" is 
A thing of the past. 

But "Moods" cannot die — Heaven save us — 
Still shines its unfaltering flame — 

Can the pages e'er perish that gave us 
"The Pool" or "The End of the Game" ? 

Can the lispings of Carrie or Hbrtense 
Be lost to the light of the sun, 

Or the pale, but the powerful, portents 
Of G. Buell Dunn? 

Does our drama go wrong, does it trespass 
Or wander afar from the light? 

Our Goodman, the hostage of Thespis, 
Will patiently lead it aright. 

Are we barren of Art? Who can blame us? 
We are stone in an age that is steel, 

And only one spirit can shame us — 
Oh Shaemas O'Sheel. 

[21] 



Does latter day literature never 

Grow greater, but still remain null — 

Does Hunecker dare to be clever 
Or Kennedy dare to be dull? 

Do our masculine tenets grow fewer 
And wear intellectual skirts? 

Let it hurt every other reviewer — 
But B. Russell Herts ! 

O liltings as limpid as Larcom, 

O rhymes we remembered to read, 

From the masculine message of Markham 
To Kauffman's crepuscular creed — 

From the beauties of ballad and lyric 
Where sin was a sobbing refrain 

To the violet virtues of Viereck, 
Our Poet of Pain. 

O dazzling and daring our aims were, 
But we swore an allegiance to all, 

Tho' many and mighty their names were 
And vital and varied their call; 

There was Anarchy (scented with lilac) 
And Freedom (set free by a scribe) 

And Suffrage — not suffrance — (see Shylock) 
Was the badge of our tribe. 

[22] 



But "Moods" having passed, now Endeavor 
Must aim at a worthier end — 

"Be good, let who will then be clever" 
And notihing shall stop you, my friend. 

Be manly of mind and of muscle 
And carry these words as a spell : 

Be buoyant, be brave and, B. Russell, 

Here's wishing you well! 



L23J 



118 




•♦ **b 



^ ,A* 0«>"«O *V* ^ 









^V** 

** ** 




-6 



*•*&:*& 








•, ^«>' 





"J.C,- 







^ oV^E\ # . "^ <c 







.<<>«, 















fa .». r 1 



• V 









*\.-- 







4 

5 <fc 



v 

V 


















• •* 



• » 








** 



**# 






- 




